Girls' Night In
by cactusnell
Summary: All the women get together at 221B. Drinking, dancing, and fun. Sherlolly


Sherlock Holmes was having a bad day. Actually, he was having a bad extended weekend, courtesy of his brother Mycroft, who had suggested to their parents that, since it had been _sooooo_ long since they had spent any time with their younger son, perhaps they would enjoy a weekend in London at 221B Baker Street. It seemed when Mycroft wasn't fomenting rebellion and interfering in international politics he liked to spread havoc on a more personal level.

So it came to pass that the world's only consulting detective was sitting in his chair in his sitting room while his father tried to engage him in conversation. Holmes senior was an affable man, intelligent, though clearly not as smart, or as smart-ass, as his son. Their interaction had degenerated to a series of grunts and humpfs, and both now sat curiously studying the two women who occupied chairs at the kitchen table sharing a bottle of wine and gales of laughter.

Violet Holmes was a lively silver haired older woman with a brilliant mind and a quick laugh. Mrs. Martha Hudson was an attractive woman of the same age with a checkered past and a spicy sense of humor. The two woman had been friends for years, since their schooldays. Sherlock had always suspected that Mrs. Hudson worked as an undercover for his mummy, and their easy camaraderie did nothing to dispel this notion. The two woman had now, after several glasses of excellent red wine, decided to relive the sixties (the decade, not their ages) by exchanging stories and actually dancing to loud music. Holmes, senior, smiled indulgently. Holmes, junior, sneered.

As Petula Clark sang about knowing a place where the music was loud and the lights were low, Dr. Molly Hooper made her way up the stairs bearing gifts of a diseased liver and a pair of overworked kidneys. Not her own, of course. She stopped in surprise when she saw the two women laughing and dancing, then looked at the two men, watching in divergent states of amusement.

"Molly," exclaimed Violet Holmes. "I'm so glad you could join us! It's been ages."

Sherlock rose from his seat, grabbed the cooler full of donated organs, as well as his pathologist, and tried to escort her out the door. "I'm sure Molly has much better things to do on a Friday night."

"She would have if you weren't such a twit," his mother grabbed the younger woman by her other arm and led her to the kitchen, almost starting a tug of war. Sherlock, deciding that jerking Dr. Hooper back and forth from one Holmes to another may, indeed, cause physical damage, in addition to the damage to his dignity, decided to yield this battle to his mother, who immediately went in search of something resembling a clean glass so that Molly could join her and Martha Hudson in their libations, conversations, and perhaps, after she had caught up, dancing.

"You're in for it now, boy!" Siger Holmes muttered to his son good naturedly as Sherlock resumed his seat in the sitting room.

The party continued in the kitchen. Violet and Martha regaled Molly with stories of Sherlock's childhood. Perhaps his potty training, he thought with a wince. They spoke of living the through the swinging sixties in London. When their voices got lower, Sherlock could only assume that the women were discussing some of the racier elements of this decade. His suspicions were confirmed when the laughter got louder, and his father, seeming to sense the same things, turned a lovely shade of red.

"I can't get over how much Sherlock looks like his father at that age!", Martha exclaimed, "Too bad he doesn't put those looks to better use!"

"Siger certainly did!". This came from Violet.

"My god, I think he went through the entire chorus line before he settled down!"

"I'm glad he got it out of his system before he settled on me," Violet laughed. "I certainly couldn't keep up with him!"

Molly took a big sip of wine while trying to digest this "too much information".

Violet then sighed, and changed the subject. "I haven't seen John Watson and his wife since the baby was born. That's almost a year. How are they doing, Molly?"

"They're great. The baby is beautiful, and they're very happy." Molly took another gulp of wine, and came up with what seemed to her a brilliant idea. "Mary's been complaining about not getting out enough. Why don't I give her a call?"

"Excellent idea, luv. The more the merrier!" Martha Hudson was very enthusiastic. "Make sure they bring the baby, now."

John and Mary, with baby Claire in tow, arrived within thirty minutes. The woman spent some time cooing over the sleeping infant, then turned their attention back to the wine and conversation. Mary, struggling to catch up, downed a glass in quick order and poured another, but glancing at the diminished state of the supply, suggested sending one of the men out reinforcements.

"Not to worry, dear. I've taken care of that!" Violet Holmes assured her.

There were now three men and a baby lined up on the sitting room couch. Sherlock had given up his chair to afford himself a better view of what was going on in the kitchen.

"What have I missed?" asked John as he settled in.

"Nothing much John. Just some tales from my evidently adorable childhood, my father's checkered past involving a chorus line, hopefully of women, as well as assorted whispered revelations from the sixties. I must tell you that when they move on to the seventies it will involve continued dancing, probably to the music of ABBA, accompanied by my mother's singing off key. It may be very entertaining, depending on when the wine runs out!"

As if on cue, Mycroft walked through the door, accompanied by Anthea, and carrying a case of wine. Sherlock deduced the situation immediately. "Let me guess. Mummy texted you."

"Of course. Why else would I show up here with a case of my best wine?"

"And Anthea?"

"Anthea is the invited guest. I, evidently, am just the delivery boy."

Anthea, and the wine, were welcomed enthusiastically into the kitchen, while Mycroft was unceremoniously exiled to the sitting room with his father, brother, and, er, friend. And the baby.

The party in the kitchen was now at full blast. ABBA music, as predicted by Sherlock, was playing loudly, each woman singing along as they danced merrily, seventies style. Mrs. Holmes, in deference, evidently, to her son's musical sensibilities, chose to lip-synch. Mrs. Hudson was surprisingly light on her feet, even reviving a few moves from her exotic dancing days. This caused Mr. Holmes, senior, to squirm a little in his seat, perhaps dredging up memories he didn't want to relive. Sherlock and Mycroft looked at each other, sharing a moment they didn't really want to share. Possibly the biggest surprise came when Molly Hooper, encouraged by the others, climbed onto the kitchen table, and, using a spatula in place of a microphone, performed a credible rendition of "Dancing Queen".

"She looks pretty good up there, Sherlock", John needlessly pointed out.

"Wait until Mary climbs up there, John."

"Not gonna happen, mate. My Mary's much too serious a drinker to allow distractions. She's been cooped up with the kid too long to miss a chance like this."

"Well, at least it's not Mummy! Remember that incident at cousin Renfield's wedding, Sherlock?" From the look on his face, Sherlock obviously remembered.

"Renfield?! Don't any of you Holmes guys have regular names?" John exclaimed. Sherlock, Mycroft, and Siger looked at him as if they didn't understand what he was talking about. John then excused himself to put his sleeping daughter in her godfather's bedroom. He, therefore, missed the part of the evening when Sherlock bet his brother a tenner that Anthea would be the next to table dance.

Siger interjected, "I would have put money on Martha, but she got a hip, you know."

By the time John returned they were into the music of the eighties. It was a compromise period, the older women having been still young and free enough to enjoy popular music, and the younger ones barely remembering it from their childhood. Wine and conversation were still flowing liberally, but the later seemed to go underground a bit. There would be sideways glances, suggestive eyebrow rises, and guilty giggles coming from the woman as they seemingly compared notes on the gentleman sitting, now self-consciously, in the other room.

Mycroft grumpily handed a ten pound note to his brother as Anthea, with amazing grace considering the amount of wine she had consumed, climbed atop the table and danced to a Prince song, cheered on by the other women in the kitchen, and watched appreciatively by Mycroft Holmes.

It soon became apparent, however, that the women were not going to make it through to the new millenium. The party was slowly drawing to a close, punctuated by yawns, and head rubbing. The spirit was definitely willing, but the flesh was weakening rapidly. John was the first to suggest to his wife that perhaps it was time to leave, a very brave move considering her former occupation as a hitwoman. But she smiled at him, perhaps a bit suggestively, and agreed. As John gathered up his daughter and his wife, Mycroft was kind enough to offer them the services of his driver, as they lived only a short distance from Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson then excused herself, and toddled off downstairs, amazingly seeming none the worse for wear. There had to be a story there somewhere. Violet Holmes joined her husband on the couch, resting her head on his shoulder as he put an arm around her. Anthea perched herself on the arm of the chair which Mycroft was occupying, and, unless, you looked really closely, you would be hard pressed to notice that her hand rested gently on his shoulder, and that Mycroft was making no objection whatsoever.

_Everybody has someone,_ thought Molly. _Even Mycroft!_ But she didn't notice Violet Holmes' eyes moving from Sherlock to her, carefully taking in the scene.

Mycroft's car returned shortly, and he rose from the chair. After kissing his Mummy on the cheek, he placed his hand on the small of Anthea's back and escorted her gently from the flat, saying over his shoulder as he left, "I hope you have a sufficient supply of aspirin for the morning, Sherlock!"

Molly rose to take her leave. She had been rather hoping that Mycroft would offer her a lift. "I'd better phone for a cab." She tried to rise from the hard kitchen chair, but her legs seemed to have turned to jelly. Maybe rubber. She wasn't quite sure which. She flopped back down.

"I know exactly how you feel, dear. I barely made it to the couch. Sherlock, make us some coffee!" Violet barked at her son, who complied without complaint. "Stay where you are, Molly. We'll both feel better when we've had some caffeine."

Sherlock and his father looked even more alike as they snickered with amusement in unison. Coffee had been served, and both women were now sufficiently mobile to struggle to their feet. Siger accompanied his wife gently upstairs to John's old bedroom, and both of them were heard giggling after the door closed. Sherlock did not want to imagine what was going on. He knew that his parents were still deeply in love after all these years. He just didn't like to be presented with evidence. He would have retreated to his mind palace, but Molly presented a problem. And more than just the problem of her being drunk in his flat in the middle of the night. After tonight, he knew he would have to deal with it. Everybody had seen his reaction to her little table dance. His father had smiled, his mother had winked, and his brother had smirked. Sherlock himself had simply gazed at her, a smile playing uncontrollably across his face. She was adorable. She was adored. And everybody knew it but Molly, it seemed.

He approached the kitchen, looking down at his pathologist as she looked up at him. Sherlock reached to help her to her feet. "I'll take the couch, Molly. Let's get you to bed."

"Promises, promise," Molly muttered as she swayed against him. She then put her arms around his neck, holding herself upright, and kissed him, sloppily but passionately.

Sherlock gave a little laugh, and swept her up in his arms. "Not now, Molly. You're much too drunk."

"Look at it from my point of view, Sherly. You're much too sober!"

"Molly, you are making this very difficult. You are in no condition to legally consent to anything!"

"On the other hand, I probably won't remember anything anyway, so I'm not likely to hold a grudge. Or press charges!"

Sherlock dropped her gently on the bed. "Another point in my favor, Molly. I would definitely want you to remember. I plan on being very memorable, in fact!"

"You're planning on seducing me, Sherlock?"

"Yes, definitely. Is that a problem?"

"Promise, Sherlock?" Molly was looking at him with amazement, and slurring her words when she spoke.

"Promise, Molly,"

Molly settled back on the pillow, but suddenly bolted upright. 'Sherlock, what if I don't remember this conversation? What if you forget?"

"Forget what? The conversation or the seduction, Molly?"

"Either. Both. You're confusing me."

Sherlock grinned at the thought that she actually believed that he may forget that he had promised to seduce her. "How about if I write you an IOU? Will that do?"

"Yes, please," Molly manages to get the words out just before she drifted away.

The next morning Molly Hooper awoke in a strange bed with a terrible headache, and a feeling of doom. Had she really gotten drunk with a kitchen full of women? Had she sang old songs and exchanged secrets? Had she really danced on the bloody kitchen table? And, oh my god, had she finally tried to seduce Sherlock "I'm married to my work" Holmes? She must have goaned rather loudly, as the bedroom door opened tentatively, and Violet Holmes poked her head through.

"Care for some coffee, dear?" Mrs. Holmes asked in a surprisingly chipper voice.

"How can you possibly feel so good, Mrs. Holmes?" Molly asked between the hammer blows to her head.

"Years of practice. And lots of aspirin! I'll get you some coffee, and the bottle of aspirin, but the experience you'll have to see to yourself."

Molly groaned again.

"Sherlock and John had to go out. A case, it seems. He would have taken you, but he said you were...indisposed. John seemed a bit amused, as Mary is also ...indisposed!" Violet went on as Molly groaned once more, smiling slightly. "I wonder if Mycroft is having the same problem? Young women nowadays. Martha and I have been up for hours. Already been to the shops…"

"Did Sherlock say anything else?" Molly asked, almost dreading the answer.

"Not much, but he did leave you this note."

Molly took the paper from Violet's hand, and opened it with trepidation.

_**I O U one seduction. Be prepared as it will be memorable.**_

_**SH**_

Molly clutched the paper tightly in her hand, and went to the sitting room to borrow Sherlock's laptop. She gulped coffee, swallowed aspirin tablets, and researched hangover cures. She was, indeed, going to be more than ready when Sherlock returned home.


End file.
